


Her Best Cover Yet

by Rvnclwrites



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Becca Cunliffe, Bobbi Cunliffe, F/M, First Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26447626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rvnclwrites/pseuds/Rvnclwrites
Summary: She opened her mouth to say more but then closed it again, remembering Strike’s expertise on Blue Oyster Cult. “Don’t suppose you know any tracks I should brush up on?”Strike blinked, his dark brows arching. “Uh, yeah, I’m sure I could come up with a few.” He rubbed his eyes and checked the time. “…I could go for a pint too if you’re up for it?”
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 20
Kudos: 95





	Her Best Cover Yet

**Author's Note:**

> The first of three fics for Becca/Bobbi Cunliffe because I might be a little obsessed. I altered the timeline and incorporated parts from both the book and the show. Thanks so much for all the love and comments on my first Strike fic. Hope you guys enjoy this one too!

Robin’s confidence faltered when she crossed the threshold to the inner office as Becca, her latest persona, and Strike looked up from his desk. After Matthew’s disgust several nights prior, the undercover detective didn’t think she could handle any more criticism over her chalk-dyed hair and heavy eyeliner.

“Don’t,” she began, but Cormoran surveyed her new look with unguarded approval.

“No, it’s good,” he said, a distinguishable glimmer in his eye. “Who are you?”

The ensuing banter between them lit a spark inside her chest, and Robin felt rewarded for her late-night studying while she answered his rapid-fire music questions. 

Why couldn’t Matthew have responded like this? What was so hard about indulging in her passion and dedication for the job? Could that have saved their marriage? Then again, Matt had been strait-laced since sixth form, judging expressive styles even before suit jackets were required. Cormoran, on the other hand, had an entirely different upbringing. Perhaps the late eighties and his mum’s obsession with rock bands had encouraged teenage Strike to venture out. 

Robin was amused by the thought until it was met with the image of a matching gothic girlfriend. _Had he been into this?_ Blushing, she turned her attention towards the investigation board, hoping the overdone makeup masked her embarrassment. _Don’t be stupid_ , she admonished. Even if the possibility was there, Cormoran had surely outgrown the phase. As unconventional as he was, Strike was attracted to an even more remarkable circle of women than Matthew was—posh, wealthy socialites known for their successful careers and magazine-worthy good looks. Lorelei came to mind, and Robin berated the continued elation she felt over the breakup she should not have been present for.

“What’re you doing this evening?” he asked after their conversation about the case wrapped up, dropping Chiswell’s call logs back onto his desk.

Fighting back a frown, Robin rounded the desk, hardly eager to return to Vanessa’s sofa on a Friday night. “Revising, I suppose,” she said, stepping back towards the door. “One band isn’t enough, is it?” She opened her mouth to say more but then closed it again, remembering Strike’s expertise on Blue Oyster Cult. “Don’t suppose you know any tracks I should brush up on?” 

Strike blinked, his dark brows arching. “Uh, yeah, I’m sure I could come up with a few.” He rubbed his eyes and checked the time. “…I could go for a pint too if you’re up for it?”

Robin ignored the treacherous flip of her stomach at the offer. The more they slipped back into their old ways, the more time she wanted to spend with her partner. 

“Yeah, I’ve got time,” she said, pretending to glimpse her phone. She continued to ignore the three unopened messages from Matt, relieved she no longer owed him an explanation. She could stay out as late as she wanted.

The newfound freedom sent a thrill of pleasure through her until Strike locked up the office and she eyed the stairwell up to his flat. The view from the landing derailed her train of thought, filling her imagination with the prospect of Cormoran leading her up the steps instead of down.

“Ready?” he asked, eyeing her curiously.

Robin forced a smile, unable to meet his gaze as she shook her mind free of the outlandish thought. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Despite being a Friday night, The Tottenham wasn’t overly crowded, and Robin claimed a wall seat table, aware the side with the booth was more comfortable for Cormoran’s leg, while he retrieved their drinks. The twenty-seven year old had grown accustomed to blokes leering at her in pubs, but she didn’t realize how judgemental bystanders could be as both male and female heads swiveled in her direction.

“Sorry,” she muttered when Strike placed a glass of white wine in front of her. “I keep forgetting how I look.” She wiped her dark lipstick off with a paper napkin, recalling how worried Matt was about one of his mates running into her like this.

Strike glared back at a few lingering stares from an older couple before slumping into the booth. “They’re just peeved because you’re making them remember the good old days.”

Robin laughed, her curiosity from earlier daring her to ask, “Were the eighties as fun for you?”

“Christ no.” Strike tipped the pint of Doom Bar to his lips, staring off into the distance. “Then again, I suppose most ten year olds aren’t dragged to loads of rubbish concerts by their mums.”

Treading carefully around the subject of Leda Strike, Robin sipped her wine and pretended not to be flabbergasted by his young age. So far, the tidbits she’d gathered about her partner’s unusual childhood sounded unpleasant. “How’d you even get in?”

“I was always big for my age. She told me I was fifteen if anyone asked. Bit of a stretch, but I was never kicked out.”

He took another long pull on his pint, and Robin’s gaze lingered on her partner, whose Cornish giant name inspiration hit the nail on the head. Strike _was_ big. Fuzzy though it was, she still remembered drunkenly leaning into his bulk as he led her to Hazlitt’s with an arm wrapped around her waist. Her attention dropped to the hand clutching the beer glass, and Guy Somé’s voice echoed inside her head.

_Oh, I think they might be a bit tight on your big hairy mitts. Though Ciara certainly wasn’t complaining about them._

Hiding her mortification behind her wine glass, Robin swilled half of its contents in an attempt to halt any further unwarranted examination of Cormoran’s size. “They can’t have all been rubbish,” she insisted. “Don’t teenagers love concerts?”

“If you love sweaty, pissed blokes pressing up against you while they scream along to shit music, then sure,” Strike said.

Robin grinned, easily able to envision a younger brooding Strike elbowing his way through a crowd.

“So mainstream or underrated?” he asked, pulling out his mobile. “Joy Division or Echo & the Bunnymen might be a good place to start.”

Robin intended to move her chair over until he scooted to make room along the booth. Sliding beside him, Strike rotated the screen and played a couple videos for her, seamlessly inserting useful information about lyrics or band members from time to time. He had an incredible memory and always seemed to know trivia about even the most mundane topics—it was one of the qualities Robin admired most about him and his detective skills.

She listened with keen interest, only realizing just how close they were sitting when her outer thigh brushed his. Much like their trips in the Land Rover, time flew by as they finished a second and then a third round of drinks. Tipsy and lighthearted, they switched to live videos from the eighties, both laughing as they watched the outdated styles and gimmicky shows unfold on screen. 

“Pretty sure I was at this one,” Cormoran said, stumbling across a video of Motley Crue touring in Manchester in 1986. “Mum hated them. Said it was blasphemy they sold three times as many albums as Blue Oyster Cult. Didn’t stop her from trying to make connections though.”

“Anything to get to Eric Bloom?” Robin asked, smiling at him.

He held her gaze. “Exactly.”

Neither of them said anything for a beat. Robin yearned to lean forward, to match her reckless, youthful persona and kiss him properly, the way she’d fantasized about ever since that fleeting, inscrutable hug on the stairs. 

Strike, too, was mesmerised by his partner, by her dedication and love for the job. Becca had brought back that playful fire in her he had missed around the office ever since that fateful day in Masham. This case had restored their relationship, mending the unacknowledged crack that had formed, which Cormoran tried to attribute to her sacking but knew deep down the answer lay within those steps at Swinton Park. As he peered down at her now, his mother’s unforgettable words drifted to the surface, puncturing the wall of denial and excuses he hid behind.

_I love him, darling. One day, you’ll feel like that about somebody._

Winded and terrified, Strike broke the moment, clearing his throat while he glimpsed the time on his phone. “It’s getting late. We should probably get you home.”

He didn’t inquire about Matthew, but the implication was there, discernible in his eyes as they met Robin’s again. _Does he know you’re here? Shouldn’t you be getting back to him?_

“Actually, I’m not going to Albury Street,” she admitted. “Matthew and I split up last weekend.”

Her tongue was loose, either from the wine or from the comforting familiarity of The Tottenham with its dark wood and fanciful paintings. All of their intimate moments had been shared within these walls—perhaps that was why an evening here sounded so uplifting. It was the one place she didn’t fear scaring Strike away with talk about their personal lives.

“Oh.” His features softened the same way they had a year and a half ago when she revealed Matt cheated on her at University. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

Empowered by her lack of tears this time, Robin squared her shoulders, focusing on her empty wine glass. “I’m not.”

Returning his phone to his pocket, Strike exhaled, overwhelmed by the onslaught of tangled emotions and questions that came to mind. “What happened?” he asked, deciding to play it safe.

“We had a row when I tried on my disguise. He wasn’t too fond of Becca.”

_How the fuck?_ Strike wondered because he had been gobsmacked by the reveal, inappropriately aroused by the skimpy shorts, the fishnet tights and _all that black_. The creative identity paired with her excitement did something to Strike, something that he refused to let himself explore, especially three pints down.

“He said it was ridiculous I would go out in public like this,” she continued, shaking her head. “So I asked why he even wanted to be with me, and I realised none of his answers were good enough.” Three glasses of wine in, and a sudden burst of giggles threatened to escape her. “Actually, Lorelei gave me some inspiration if I’m being honest.”

“That so?” Strike replied, cracking a smile. “Glad my humiliation could be of service.”

Robin’s tipsy laughter escaped, and in an attempt to get a grip on his newfound elation, Cormoran went to the bar, returning to their table with two more drinks. 

“One last round,” he said a bit too cheerfully, and Robin, afraid he might switch to the open chair, was relieved when he dropped back down beside her. 

They clinked glasses in a toast before taking the first swig, and Robin caught sight of more critical glances from a group of women on their way out.

“He’s a moron you know,” Strike muttered, registering her sudden insecurity. “After that amount of effort? Let them stare.”

Setting her glass down, she studied her black nail polish. “So you’re not embarrassed to be seen with me then?”

“Are you kidding?” he said, turning towards her. “It’s brilliant. Your best cover yet in my opinion, though I can’t imagine how much time—”

Robin surged forward, no longer caring about the consequences as she crashed her mouth against his. She surprised him, that was evident, but a tidal wave of relief washed over her when he decidedly kissed her back. She gripped his shirt, tugging him closer to feel more of him, and Cormoran obeyed, leaning into the kiss without question. Their hearts were hammering, breathing staggered as they moved their mouths against one another’s, oblivious to the background noise and surrounding onlookers. 

They broke apart slowly, eyes blinking open, and Robin felt her cheeks blaze with mortification. She couldn’t form any words or explanation. In fact, her brain felt like mush, a useless organ with no intelligent response to what she had just done.

Undoubtedly sensing her alarm, Strike said quietly, “Did Becca or Robin just do that?”

The question restricted her increasing panic. He was giving her an out, an excuse to place blame on if she wanted to pretend the kiss never happened. But did she want that?

“You choose,” she whispered, unintentionally holding her breath for his answer.

Grinning, Cormoran rested a hand on her thigh, his fingers toying with the holes of her fishnet tights. “Is both an option?”

Heart racing, Robin beamed at him. She nodded and kissed him again, sighing as Strike cupped her face and drew her closer. 

He was right—Becca was definitely her favorite cover now too.


End file.
